


I Called You After Midnight

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, love doesn’t mean acting on lust. Sometimes, it just means that when you’re called, you’re there, and you stay. For however long it takes, you stay. Frerard (Frank/Gerard); rated for substance abuse and mature concepts.  ETA: This was the first fic I ever wrote, period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Called You After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested: I remember having a cellphone at the approximate time of LOTMS, but I can’t for the life of me remember what kind was in vogue. I also would like to point out that I change tenses as the memory progresses simply because the character involved is getting more immersed in it, and that I am fully aware that I did so. :D And another note, I know there’s not a lot of dialogue in this. But if you’ve ever had to do this, or something like it, you know it’s really a quiet affair.
> 
> Disclaimer: I gave it a happy ending, just to say ‘thank you for reading 4500 words of this.’ Also, I don’t own Frank Iero or Gerard Way; I’m pretty sure Gerard sold his soul to look that hot, but I don’t know who owns Frank. The title is from a Cure song.

It’s been years now, but now, sometimes, still, you look over there at Gerard with his flaming red hair, inspiring all those girls and boys at your shows, and you remember. You remember him before all this _life_ and _hope_ and _turning over a new leaf_. You remember watching your best friend, hit by a bus, lying on the ground and looking for all the world as if he never wanted to get up. My, how times have changed.

 You watch him scream desperately into the microphone and saunter over toward you and you remember one night in particular, even as Gerard runs his hand down your face and you look up from your guitar to smile at this entity. That’s one thing about him--you never could resist him. You were so deeply in love with the mere idea of him that you would do anything for him. 

 You still are, but that was then and this is now. Now there’s a whole new set of problems, but really they don’t concern you, because what you’re concerned with is the band and Gerard’s home life and his shed don’t concern the band and whatever the hell bad decisions Mikey makes and doesn’t tell anyone don’t concern the band. 

 So you look at Gerard and you smile and you just remember. And you look at him and he just looks so good, just so whole and put-together and sweaty and handsome, and all these girls are just crying out for Gerard to touch them like he’s just barely touching you, and you look back down at your guitar, and his fingers rake through your hair, and it’s over and he’s back off to lead-singer land with trusty old Mr. Mic.

 

*************************************************************

 

You were home between tours, you think. You had just fallen off to sleep. It was late, but not late enough that it was “some ungodly hour.” 

 You’d left your phone on the ring-and-vibrate setting, but had compromised by turning the volume of the ring down to 1. And then you’d put it on to charge, plunked the infernal thing down on your nightstand, stripped to your t-shirt and boxers, and pulled the covers over yourself. 

 You hadn’t expected a call. You really didn’t have a reason for leaving the ringer on. But about five minutes into your REM cycle, the phone started buzzing and playing a Queen song, and you opened your eyes partway and groped around on the nightstand for the phone.

 You didn’t even look to see who it was before you flipped it open and mumbled a hello. The voice on the other end was just as groggy, but more awake. 

 “I just…I just don’t know anymore, I just…I don’t…I can’t… God, what’s wrong with me…”

 “…Gee?” you managed. 

 “I--I just--I don’t know _why_. I just wanted to know _why_.” 

 “Gee, what’s up?” You’re definitely awake now, and you’re already sitting up, turning on the light and resolving to get to the end of this problem. There’s really not another option. You can hear the slur in Gerard’s voice, and you can’t for the life of you leave him alone. 

 “…Frank?” Good, then, he’d just picked a speed-dial number. Better him than Mikey or Lindsey (Lyn-Z, whatever she called herself), he guessed. “Is that…you.” The last word was just a breathy sigh, and there was really no punctuation to it.

 “Yeah, Gee, it’s me. What’s up?”

 “Mmm…I don’t know, I don’t…I don’t know…”

 “Gee,” you say again, and you wish it sounded irritable but really it just sounds pained. The fact of the matter is you know that Gerard’s been drinking. You don’t know what or how much, but you’re pulling on pants and a jacket and shoes and grabbing your car keys before you can think about why. “Can you tell me where you are?”

 There’s a long silence from the other end of the line, and he can hear Gerard’s quiet sobbing, so he knows he’s still awake. “I…a parking lot…?” It sounds like a question, but you take it and hold it in your mind. 

 “That’s good, Gee. What’s around you?” You keep your voice gentle, because you really don’t want to freak him out, because if he did something to himself…you’d never recover.

 “I--I don’t know, it’s dark--” He sounds so scared, and it cuts straight through your chest, rocketing around your heart and your solar plexus and it hurts. “It’s really dark.” Another pause, and heavy breathing from Gerard. “I…think…there’s a gas station…around the corner…but I can’t hear any cars… Christ…”

 Now, at least, you can think of about three places where Gerard could be, and you’re in your car before you can register that you didn’t put on socks or run your fingers through your hair. You murmur to Gerard the whole time you drive, even though he’s not talking anymore, just crying.

 Lady Luck is on your side, and he’s in the first abandoned parking lot you search. He’s sitting on the sidewalk as you pull up, and he’s surrounded by a small crowd of bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, watching his performance with disdain. You turn off the engine and hang up your phone, leaving it in the passenger’s seat as you get out and walk over to Gerard.

 He’s not talking. He’s just crying as you walk over, and his head is between his knees and a bottle hangs limply from his hand. It’s tequila. You grab one of the other bottles and sniff. Whiskey. Almost gone. And another. Gin. Half-gone. Great, so he’s been mixing his alcohol. And not just a little of it. 

 It becomes just another fact, though, as you kneel in front of him and pull the tequila from his hand. He lets it go and sobs harder. You don’t even talk. You just put your hand under his chin and tilt his head up. He’s crying harder. You didn’t think it was possible. What eyeliner he had on is gone from his eyes, now just smeared around his cheeks and chin and hands. 

 As you tuck his jet-black hair behind his ears, you remember that earlier, he was fine. As close to fine as Gerard got, anyway, which was depressed and manic and a little tipsy. You manage to put two and two together, though. Somewhere between then and now, he’d walked from wherever he had been to here, bought a hell of a lot of liquor, and plunked himself down here and drunk and drunk. The impetus didn’t matter right now.

 Gerard’s hair is out of his face, now, and his face is distorted with crying. He isn’t taking breaths between sobs anymore, just gasping every once in a while. He sees you and cries. You close your eyes for a moment and run the balls of your thumbs over his browline, feeling the tension there. You press your lips together and grab one of Gerard’s hands, which remains limp in yours. 

 “C’mon, Gee. We need to get out of here.” You say it gently, in a way that brooks no argument. Gerard doesn’t argue, which is good, but he doesn’t listen either, which really isn’t. You have to get him to your car, whether he’s helping or not, so you just pray and heave, and he kind of unfurls a bit, halfway embracing you as you drag him to your car.

 You put him in the back seat, which is, mercifully, not full of random crap like it usually is. He leans against the door and stretches his legs out in front of him, moaning woefully as you start the car. You just hope that he doesn’t fall off the seat.

 You turn your music off completely, and avoid potholes as much as possible, but it doesn’t help. Halfway home, you hear Gerard’s sobbing crescendo and the violent retching that follows it, and you bite your lip and close your eyes and just _hurt_. The smell of vomit assails your nostrils, but the seat is leather and it’ll wash. At least Gerard won’t have to go to the hospital.

 Gerard is still crying when you get back to your place (you weren’t going to take him _home_ ), and the walk to the upstairs apartment is a trial. The stupid elevator has been broken for months. Gerard has puked all over himself, and he smells terrible, and he’s sobbing and not walking so much as being carried. And you just shush him so he doesn’t wake the neighbors, and tell him it’ll be okay. 

 It’s late. He needs sleep. You need sleep. You can’t let him sleep yet, though. You prop your best friend against your kitchen counter and go into the bathroom and start the shower heating up. When you return, you see Gerard, who has sunk down the wall and onto the floor, and he’s lying there in a heap, no longer sobbing, just crying and gasping.

 There’s not a lot you can say, other than the obvious. “Gee…” and you roll him over, supporting him as he sits up and gags, pulling him to his feet. “Gee, baby, do you want to take a shower?” And he blinks once, which you take as a yes, and you pull him into your bedroom and close the door, locking it just in case. You put a towel down on the edge of your bed and sit Gerard there, lifting his limbs and pulling off his ruined leather jacket. 

 He just stares at the floor blankly, not saying a word as you pull his shirt over his head, then kneel down to yank the laces apart on his heavy boots with a vengeance, taking them off his feet, followed by his socks. Tears start streaming down his face again as you help him stand, slinging one of his arms around your shoulders and holding him up with one arm, undoing his pants with the other. You kiss his ear and shush him and he moans pitifully as you let him sit back down and pull off the last of his clothing.

 You’re too scared now to even be turned on. Gerard could have given himself alcohol poisoning. He could have died. His vomit-covered garments are piled in the corner of your bedroom now, and you set your jaw and drag him into the bathroom, opening the door of the shower, which is now quite warm and nice, and helping Gerard in. 

 You’re not concerned with him washing himself so much as you want him to sweat out some of his blood alcohol content. You close the shower door and stay in the room, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself. You took your razor out of the shower. He probably couldn’t do too much with a bar of soap and a few bottles of bath products, but Gerard was crafty. You didn’t have to worry. Gerard just stands under the streams of water and takes deep breaths, and once turns laboriously around to wash his back. 

 You give him fifteen minutes, and then you open the shower and turn off the spray, stepping in and letting Gerard lean on you and get out, closing the shower door and letting him lean against that as you towel him off gently, worshipfully, from head to foot. He still smells like vomit, but now he’s pink and sweaty, and that’s good. You wrap the towel around his waist, tucking the end in snugly, and support  him as he sinks to his knees and hugs the toilet, resting his head on the seat and staring into space. 

 “You wanna put some clothes on, Gee?” you ask quietly, kneeling next to him.

 He shakes his head. “Uh-uh,” he manages, and turns his head and gags. That’s all the warning you have before he’s throwing up again into the toilet. You rake his hair back with one hand and press your lips to the back of his neck, feeling his back heave beneath your other hand. When he’s done, he spits disgustedly into the toilet and starts crying again, and you reach up to flush it and he pulls his head away for the few seconds that takes. Then he’s hugging the toilet and crying more, and you leave for just long enough to grab him a pair of sweatpants that are too big for you and a big t-shirt, leaving them folded on the bathroom counter. 

 Then you pull back his hair, which smells like puke, and keep it there with a clip you use when you straighten your own hair. You sit down next to your sobbing mess of a friend and run an open hand over his bare back, shoulder blade to the lip of the towel, and repeat the action. Over and over. Top to bottom. And when he’s stopped sobbing and has reduced to shaking, you get up again, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder before you go out again. 

 This time, you grab a bottle of water from your fridge, hurrying back to the bathroom to see Gerard still bowed over the toilet, shaking uncontrollably. You sit back down and continue where you left off, stroking his back silently. After a minute, you ask, “Gee, you wanna try taking a sip of water, baby?” He nods into the toilet bowl, and you place one hand aside his head, helping him sit back against the wall. He groans as you twist off the cap of the bottle of water, and you support his head again as he laps up a bit of water, spilling more of it down his front. 

 You pull a tissue from the box on the counter and wipe off the droplets, and close the water, placing it next to you on the floor. You’ve barely finished doing that when Gerard’s back heaves again, and you just stay there and rub his back as he throws up again. “It’s fine,” you say quietly to him as you flush the toilet again. “You’re just fine, Gerard, you’re okay. You’re doing just fine.” 

 This sets off the crying again, and now Gerard has sobered up enough to sob words. “Why--why did--Alex leave me? Why’d he leave me?” 

 This throws you for a loop. You knew that Gerard and his fling had split up, but Gerard had had you convinced that it was he who did the splitting, and that he’d never developed feelings for his sometimes-partner.  You play it off, though, shaking your head and saying, “Alex is stupid.”

 “He _left_ me.”

 “Because he’s stupid.”

 Gerard is crying again, and you just rub his back and let him get it out of his system. “He doesn’t want me,” he says between sobs. 

 You reply, “He’s not good enough for you, anyway.” Automatic reaction. You just spew out the bullshit Gerard wants to hear. It makes him cry even harder. He’s not throwing up any more, though, so it’s improvement. “Gee,” you ask quietly. “You think you could try another sip of water?” He nods, grimacing, and you unscrew the cap and he can at least support his own head now. He collapses back onto the toilet as you close the bottle, though, and cries some more. 

 Now that you’re out of the danger zone, you thank whatever higher power is helping out here, and slide over to the wall across from the toilet, keeping one hand on Gerard’s shoulder. Once your back is braced, you tug gently, and Gerard moves with more speed than he has all night, curling up against your chest like a black-haired squid, sobbing onto your t-shirt. 

 You hug him tightly, lifting his face up so you can place kisses all over it, gentle kisses, platonic kisses. You cover his face in them, feeling the sweat on his forehead and cheeks. You feel the wetness of his tears, which are still flowing, but his eyes are closed and he’s just breathing heavily now, no longer sobbing about how he is ugly and worthless. He shifts enough that you can reach him more easily, one of his heavy hands landing on your chest as his breath hits your neck. 

 You kiss his chin and his cheeks and his jaw, and move to his lips, and he wakes up enough to shake his head, weakly, and put his head on your shoulder. You notice then that somewhere in this whirlwind of trying to comfort Gerard, his towel has slipped off, and he’s just lying there naked. 

 You proffer the water again, and he sips at it by rote, and you put it back down. “Gee,” you say quietly. “You wanna put some clothes on, baby?” Gerard clings tightly to you, and you press a kiss to his vomit-smelling hair, rubbing his back. He eventually relaxes and nods, and you whisper to him that you have to get up and grab the clothes. He lets go, and you help him sit up, leaning against the wall next to the toilet, and you stand, grabbing the clothes from the counter. 

 He groans as you grab his arm and help him stand unsteadily, bending down and letting him hold on to your head as you lift first one foot, then the other, to put on the sweatpants, pulling them up as you stand. He clings to your shoulders with both hands as you help him into the shirt, but it gets done, and he’s wearing a Ramones t-shirt and a pair of baggy (even on him) sweatpants. He almost falls back to the floor, but you catch him and help him sit slowly, and he goes back to hugging the toilet. 

 “You want socks?” you ask quietly.

 “Mmmm,” Gerard responds, so you go and grab a pair of Pikachu socks from your dresser, padding back to the bathroom and sitting down to pull them onto Gerard’s feet. He looks almost cute, dwarfed by the clothes and curled up as he is, but for the crying that’s started up silently again. “Your toilet smells gross,” he says bitterly, and you say, “That’s because you threw up in it, Gee.”

 “I did?” he asks. “Nasty.” 

 “You want me to clean it?” Gerard nods, and you help him sit up again, grabbing the Clorox wand and scrubbing quickly, flushing. “There,” you say, and he lets his head fall back onto the toilet seat with an audible clunk. You pick up a washcloth and wet it with cold water, holding it in one hand as you sit back down. “You want me to wash your face, Gee?” He nods again, and you support his head in your left hand and with your right you dab at his sweaty, tearstained face with the wet cloth, forehead, cheeks, lips, chin, neck. “There,” you say when you’re done. “You wanna try another sip of water?”

 He nods, and you’re so thankful that he’s sobering up. You watch as he takes the bottle from you and lifts it unaided this time, and you put the bottle back on the floor and stroke his hair. His head is right back on the toilet seat, where it’s made its home. Gerard closes his eyes, moans, and asks, “What’s happened tonight?”

 You twist your lips and answer. “You got dumped, went out and bought a whole lot of liquor, sat in a parking lot and drank.” Gerard sighs. 

 “I did.”

 “And you called me.”

 “I did?”

 “You also called Ray.”

 “Ohhhh.” He swallows. “Did Ray answer?”

 “I doubt it.” You walk into your bedroom and pluck Gerard’s phone from his puke-covered jacket. You open the thing, and it shows that he’s called Ray and you, that’s old news, and that he’s texted Alex, Ray, and Mikey. You put the phone on your nightstand, and walk back to the bathroom. You sit next to Gerard, whose eyes are still closed. “Hey, Gee, don’t go to sleep.”

 “I’m not,” he replies. “Did…did I call anyone else?”

 “No, but you texted Alex.”

 “Shhhhit.”

 “And Ray.”

 “Meh.”

 “And Mikey.”

 Gerard’s eyes fly open at that. Then they fall shut again and he groans loudly, spitting into the toilet. “Jesus Christ.” He pauses. “I threw up.”

 “Yeah, you did.”

 “More than once?”

 You laugh. “Three times.”

 “Ugh.”

 “Yeah, Gee.”

 “Did you watch?” You almost laugh out loud at this question. 

 “Only twice.” Gerard blinks cluelessly. “You threw up in my car.”

 “I _did_?”

 “Yeah.”

 “I’m sorry,” he says, and he launches into another fit of crying. Your levity fades instantly, and you shush him and tell him it’s fine, that the seats will wash. You run your hands down his sides, and he calms much more quickly than earlier. 

 You offer the water again, and again Gerard sips at it. “You want to go to bed, Gerard?” you ask after he’s swallowed. He shakes his head and puts it back on the toilet seat. “Okay, baby,” you murmur, dabbing at his tears with another tissue. “You feeling any less queasy?”

 “Mmm,” he affirms, eyes closed again.  “I threw up.”

 “Three times.”

 “Did I…I throw up on myself?” You smile.

 “Yeah, you kinda did.”

 “Oh.” He stops. “These aren’t my clothes.”

 “No, they’re mine.”

 “ _Why_ am I wearing _your_ clothes?” he expels.

 “I made you take a shower.”

 “You did?” He sniffs. “I smell gross.”

 “You threw up on yourself.” You say it without inflection.

 “Ew.”

 You think of something. “You wanna brush your teeth, Gee?” He nods, and you get up and grab a spare toothbrush and squeeze some toothpaste onto it. You help Gerard sit up and he takes the brush, sticking it in his mouth and not doing any more. You lift his hand back to it, making brushing motions, and he gets the hang of it, halfheartedly scrubbing at his mouth and teeth. 

 After ten seconds, he goes to spit and you stop him. “Uh-uh,” you order. “Keep brushing.” He meekly does as commanded, and you let him spit the toothpaste into the toilet after two minutes. You flush the toilet and let him lay his head back down, tossing the toothbrush into the bathroom sink. He takes another sip of water, and swishes it around a bit before swallowing. You grimace briefly. 

 “Your toilet smells like bleach,” he says bluntly.

 “I cleaned it,” you answer, thumb tracing Gerard’s pulse point. 

 “Why?”

 “You said it smelled gross.”

 “Because I threw up.”

 “Right.”

 “Why?”

 “Because you got way too drunk, babe.” The term rolls off Gerard. 

 “Why did I…” He remembers, it seems, because he starts sobbing just as vehemently as before, clutching the toilet bowl desperately. “Alex…left me--” he chokes out.  “ _Why_ did he leave me?” 

 “Because he’s stupid,” you answer again, patiently. Gerard just sobs harder, tears streaking his face once more. You pull him to you, and he leans on you and cries some more, and you hug him and kiss his face again. He cries harder. You stroke his face with one hand, and he closes his eyes and sobs wordlessly, face crumpled. You kiss his forehead. His hands land on your shoulders. He does what he did earlier, closing his eyes and letting you press kisses all over his face.

 This time, though, he doesn’t even move as you thread your fingers into his hair and press a cautious, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. You pull back and do it again, and he responds, fingers tightening on your shoulders as he kisses back clumsily, leaning heavily on you as he presses up into the contact. You remain locked at the lips for well over a minute, this familiar exchange comforting Gerard somehow. When he lets your lips go, unlatching his teeth from the lower one, you move down to kiss his neck reverently, murmuring to him that he’s not ugly, and he’s not worthless, and that you love him. He breathes shakily and you stop, hugging him to your chest and squeezing. He sighs. 

 “ _Why_ did Alex leave me?”

 “Alex doesn’t deserve you,” you say into his hair. “You want to go to sleep?”

 “Mmm.”

 You help him stand up, then, and help him walk to the bed, sitting him down on the edge. “You wanna drink a little more water?” He nods. You retrieve the bottle, and as he fumbles with it, you clean the vomit from the walls and floor, getting a trash bag and wadding up Gerard’s clothes in it, putting them out of sight. You find a bottle of painkillers and put it on your nightstand along with another bottle of water. 

 Gerard sets the open bottle down on the bed, and you pick it up and place it next to the new one. You help him wiggle under the covers and pull them over him, grabbing the extra pillow and making for the living room sofa. 

 “Where--where’re you going?” Gerard says, confused.

 “Don’t worry, Gee, I’ll just be in the living room if you need me--”

 “No!” Gerard exclaims suddenly. “Don’t--”

 “Gee, you really don’t need me to sleep with you.” Gerard giggles. “In the same bed as you,” you amend, turning again.

 “Frank…” he sighs, curling into a pathetic ball under your covers. You mentally beat your head against a wall, but you go back, slithering under the covers and rolling over to face away from the ball of lead singer on your side of the bed. 

 You hear Gerard uncurl, rolling over to face your back. You can feel him staring, so you roll back over, meeting his eyes and stroking his face with one hand. “Go to sleep, Gee,” you whisper into the two inches separating your faces. “You need to sleep.”

 “Are you gonna stay?” he challenges in a slur that is half-booze, half-sleep.

 You consider that question for a moment. “Yeah, I’m gonna stay. When you wake up, I’ll still be here.”

 “You just signed away your soul,” Gerard sighs, his eyes dropping shut like anvils are attached to his eyelids. 

 You watched his face for a while, and then just went to sleep. In the morning, he’d need aspirin and water and quiet and dark. It wasn’t important now. 

 

*************************************************************

 

When the show is over, Gerard puts the mic down, and you put your guitar down on the stage, and as the concertgoers trickle out, Gerard strides over to you with that confidence he exudes nowadays, and he stares you down. 

 “Good show,” you say, too tired to be very gung ho. You stretch your arms up over your head, pulling at the muscles of your back, which are tense. When your arms come down, Gerard’s hands fly up, running over your face and neck as if to verify you’re here. 

 He’s coming down from the high of performance, and he lets his hands drop, smiling crookedly at you before twisting at his wedding ring. It’s a familiar routine. Gerard does this a lot. 

 What comes as a surprise, though, is when you’re backstage, and Ray and Mikey are over yonder getting towels and iced Gatorade. Gerard repeats the same routine, twisting at his wedding ring, glancing at the man he has backed against a column. He twists, and fidgets, and pulls the ring off, pocketing it and raking his hands into your sweaty hair, kissing you hard and deep and sexual. 

 You try to protest, but there are too many tongues in your mouth and you don’t want either of them gone, so instead you wrap your legs around his waist and moan deeply, turning your head so that you can feel his tongue go deeper, always deeper. 

 He grinds against you roughly, and you cling to him, and then you feel him wrestle with himself before pulling back. You know you must look as thoroughly debauched as he does in this moment, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. His fingers dive into his pocket and he fidgets again with his wedding ring, putting it back on. You begin to unwrap your legs from his waist, and he sighs.

 “I’m so sorry, Frankie,” he murmurs, taking no notice of the mutual hardened bulges in skinny jeans. He pulls out his phone and walks away.

 You watch him, and wrestle your feelings back into their safe little box, and sidle over to the rest of the band, gulping down the cold beverage offered you like it’s a glass of water in Hell.

 Later that night, you’re lying in your hotel bed, debating whether or not to jerk yourself off before you go to sleep, when your phone chirps happily and vibrates softly. You have a text, and you reach to see who it is. 

 Gerard. He’s sent you a picture. 

 You open it, expecting a GIF of Billie Joe Armstrong mooning you or something like that. It’s not that. It’s a screenshot of Gerard’s phone, of texts exchanged with his wife. The last few catch your eye.

  _I’m sorry babe_  


  
_G just go for it_  


_We talked about this_

  
_I love you baby_  


  
_I love you too. Night_  


 You try to puzzle it out, but before you have a chance, there’s a knock on your door. You answer it. Gerard is standing there, wearing his wedding ring and a smile full of sexual promise. He enters, closes the door behind him, and pushes you down onto your bed, climbing on top of you and laughing darkly.

 “Are you ready for this?”

 FINIS.

 


End file.
